


less primitive music

by InfiniteCalm



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Brief description of depression, M/M, Season 6 Fix-It, Thomas LEAVES DOWNTON, at least he's out of that house!!!, events of s06e08 mentioned, lesbians forever, maybe thomas learns something, mlm/wlw solidarity, or maybe he doesn't, slightly au from s06e07 on, the brancaster au, well i fixed the ending anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24380233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfiniteCalm/pseuds/InfiniteCalm
Summary: 1925: Thomas accepts an offer. It's good for him.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Comments: 35
Kudos: 118





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i did not expect this to happen!!!
> 
> title from [Questions of Travel](https://www.poemhunter.com/i/poem_images/632/questions-of-travel.jpg) by Elizabeth Bishop

The silence that fills him up is going to come rushing out of his mouth and down onto the table. It’s going to cover all these people in its tar, and then they’ll know. And then they’ll be sorry, and then they’ll all leave him alone. They’ll just leave him alone.

He feels like he hasn’t spoken in a long time; Peter Pelham (gorgeous, shiny Peter Pelham who had smiled so _luminously_ across the room at him when they were both children, in the last season before the war. Even the Duke had not broken the rules quite so boldly. I see you, that smile had said. I see you seeing me) is dead and nobody except his cousin cares. What a life; what an ending.

Perhaps he had friends in Morocco.

The family are talking, which he registers as being from far away.

“Well, you’ll need to restaff the house, for one thing,” the Lady Mary is telling the new and pale Marquess. “I understand it’s running on rather a skeleton crew at the moment.”

Imagine, thinking of that, at a time like this. Thomas wants to shake her. _Peter Pelham is dead,_ he thinks. _It doesn’t matter who his fucking head housemaid is._ Bertie – Mr Pelham – the sad new nobleman – says something about needing new staff, certainly, but that not being his main priority. Fine. Thomas stays in the background.

Nobody talks to him.

-

_“No,_ Mr Barrow, you jump _like this_ because you’re on a horse,” Sybbie says. “And then… big jump, Marigold, that’s right!”

Marigold finishes the horse jumping course they’ve set up in the nursery and returns to his side, reaching a little sticky hand up to sit in his. They’ll both be leaving here, one way or another, the front exit or the back, standing up or lying down.

-

Lord Pelham catches Thomas off-guard one evening before the wedding, when he’s back on his feet, and therefore soon to be unemployed. And after that, he imagines, he’ll be dead. He can’t dredge up too much feeling about it.

“Oh, Mr Barrow, I’m glad to have caught you. I’ve heard you’re to be moving on from Downton in the near future?”

Jesus _Christ,_ will _anyone_ let him do his job without telling him it’ll soon be redundant? Will _anyone_ just leave him alone? He can barely stand at the end of the night with the effort of – all this, but God forbid anyone tell him that he’s right to be doing it!

“Yes, that’s correct, my Lord.” Thomas says, thinking of how Lord Pelham looks just like his predecessor, only softer. Something about the smile lines, the friendly crow’s feet at the eyes.

“Well, listen, I’ve got a proposition for you. Edith – that is, Miss Crawley, is anxious about the lack of a seasoned staff at Brancaster, and about taking Miss Marigold away from her cous – I mean, her friends here.”

Thomas stands impassively and does not react to the slip of the tongue, or to the proposition which is apparently coming.

“I can imagine those are serious concerns, my Lord.”

Bertie Pelham fidgets with the sleeve of his jacket. My Lord still not sitting well with him. Probably feels like he’s wearing his cousin’s clothes.

“And, well, as we know you’re more than capable of running a large house, we thought we might offer you the position.”

Thomas’ mouth goes dry. It surely cannot be what he thinks it is. Things like that do not happen to him.

“I’m sorry sir – to which position are you referring?”

Lord Pelham startles and laughs.

“There I go, putting my foot in it already. The position of butler at Brancaster, of course. Now, it would be fewer staff than we have here… Peter had most of the house closed off, so day-to-day the rooms we actually use are much less lavish than they are here. But don’t worry, there would be house parties and the like. Opportunities for proper butlering, as it were.”

“Well, my Lord… I’m sure I… I’ll need to talk to Mr Carson.”

“Oh, to be sure. Take your time. Do think it over. Let me know by the end of the week.”

“Of course, sir.”

“We’d be glad to have you, Mr Barrow. Truly.”

-

Phyllis clasps his hands when he tells her and for once is not self-conscious about doing so.

“This is just what you need, Thomas,” she says, and he doesn’t mind that she isn’t calling him Mr Barrow. Soon he won’t work here anymore; then they’ll just be old friends. “And what a position! You must be delighted!”

“It’s not so much as step-up as a step sideways,” Thomas says. “Perhaps even a step down. They’re wrapping things up at Brancaster, from what I can tell. Things are changing more there than they are here.”

Phyllis squeezes his hands again and smiles gently. He’ll miss her, he thinks suddenly. He’ll miss her immensely. He’s not used to that anymore; the people he used to wish himself near are mostly all dead. But here; there are one or two people he will be sorry to lose.

“That’s what you need, Mr Barrow,” she says. “Some change. Something new. You can let us know what the future looks like.”

Will he like the view? He’s not sure. But at least he’ll get to see it.

-

Marigold is all smiles when she finds out just who will be the new butler in their new house. She runs up to him (unusual behaviour for her, he will reflect later) and attaches herself to his hand. She says nothing. Thomas thinks, she should be speaking; why won’t she talk? The new Mrs Pelham doesn’t seem to notice. Better seen and not heard, as the old phrase goes… though Thomas is sure she wouldn’t want such old-fashioned ideas ascribed to her.

Sybbie and George are pretending that they are neither jealous nor sad. They do not do a very good job of it, but Mr Branson stands in his daughter’s sightline and his face communicates the need to Be Nice to Marigold, and she is.

-

Mrs Hughes embraces him as he is on his way out the door. They put together a little party to mark the occasion – goodbye, good luck, don’t forget to write!! – and some of the old hands are a little emotional.

“To think there’ll be no more of your cheek at the dinner table,” Daisy says sadly. “Always did like your complaining, Mr Barrow. Full of new ideas, you were.”

“Still am,” he says, trying not to act too surprised. “You should read more about the French Revolution.”

“Do _not_ follow this man’s advice,” Mrs Patmore says. “He’s never steered anyone right in his life.”

Thomas tries to calculate the amount of lives he personally saved during the war, but Mrs Hughes interrupts them again.

And then he’s out the door and it’s like an elastic cord has finally snapped. The taste of his farewell cake is still in his mouth; he exhales a shuddering breath, and has no desire to look back as he leaves.

-

Thomas – Mr Barrow – realises quickly what the job really entails. It’s not what he expected. They’re shutting down the house; ending its reign over the surrounding tenancies. Thomas oversees the invent, the cleaning, the valuations, and then the further cleaning. Lady Edith is an able partner in this endeavour, when she’s around. But she’s up and down to London so often that it’s difficult for her to manage everything. More present is Marigold, who likes to sneak into the servant’s hall and wait for the cook to feed her biscuits. The halls are empty and still without her; it’s good to have her running around.

The Servant’s Hall is.

The Servant’s Hall makes him feel like he’s just stepped into a hot room after being outside in the rain. At first, unsure if the sudden temperature change is comfortable; and then excessively grateful for the respite.

It’s nice; it’s calm, it’s bustling, and the people are good, but mostly they’re not in the profession for life. A different energy. The housekeeper is very competent. More than competent. It’s not that Thomas has delegated his responsibilities. More like she’s decided herself that she’ll continue in the vein she’s comfortable in, and he’s happy with that.

Mr Pelham has a new valet, a Mr Franks, who has a nice broad smile and a shelf full of Wilde. There’s nothing going on there (much as Thomas would wish it to be otherwise, he still feels like he’ll break at the end of every hard day, and Mr John Franks is a man who is content with sitting and reading side-by-side) but it’s so good to have a friend he doesn’t have to completely close himself off from.

When he’s not sorting through things, he’s in London, working there. And he likes that too; through Mr Franks ( _John,_ Thomas, call me _John_ ) there are others.

The friends he has now; _fuck._ No wonder he was so sick before. Turns out this kind of thing was necessary. He won’t forget again.

-

“Can Mr Barrow come with us on our walk to the park?” Marigold asks Nanny Ffrench.

Thomas feels guilty, sometimes, that his life has been rescued only through the death of Peter Pelham. Maybe it was always one or the other, some sort of cosmic fate, and in some other history Barrow died and Pelham was a happily exiled Marquess. And then, he wonders, why me? Why am I spared?

-

Two years go on like this; they’re going to let out Brancaster by the end of 1927 and take up residence in a townhouse – Thomas can hear Daisy and the Lady Mary say “how very _modern_ ,” though he suspects one would be more enthusiastic that the other.

And then, the letter.

“Oh, Mr Barrow, I’m glad to catch you,” Lady Edith tells him, face shining. “You’ll never guess who’s going to visit Downton. I’m afraid this Summer’s plans will have to be changed rather a lot.”

And when it's all laid out - you simply _must_ come along, they'll surely have need of you downstairs, they'll be busy - he decides he'll survive it. He lives his life according to their whims, after all. Perhaps a bit of excitement might do him good.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing he notices, as he steps into the Downton Servant’s hall with Mr Franks (Mr Franks when they’re actively working, John when they’re not– the compromise they’ve settled at) is how the tension is filling up the place from the centre outwards. He sneaks a glance at Franks, who raises an eyebrow imperceptibly.

“It’s _still_ not your best,” He hears Carson say, and he has to fight to keep his face straight and impassive. He stands still in the doorway as Carson walks (was he always this frail, or have the two years in between been as hard as all that?) from the kitchen, followed by a Daisy who is substantially more touched by the sun than she had been back when Thomas knew her. Baxter had not mentioned her leaving in her letters, but only the farm, surely, could explain the new complexion.

“Well considering I am back here _as a favour_ to Mrs Patmore, you’ll – Thomas!”

Daisy’s face lights up when she sees him. Her memory must have been kinder to him than he ever was to her.

“Hello, Daisy.” Thomas says. He wonders how far he can push Carson these days. He’s not said anything to greet them, which is an encouraging sign. “Might I introduce Mr Franks – or rather, Mr Pelham, if you’re still holding onto that. The Marquess’ valet.”

That gets a rise out of Carson. Good, Thomas thinks. We’re beginning to see where the land lies. In a rather unchanged position, despite their relative statuses having changed so much.

“We _very much are_ still “doing that,” Mr Barrow,” he says. “Not all houses are so keen to abandon the proper ways of doing things.”

Franks looks at Thomas. When they’re alone they’ll probably laugh about it, but Carson is not a man to be handled like that - he requires a delicate touch, not that he’d enjoy it being phrased that way.

“One would imagine that Lord and Lady Pelham know their business with their own staff,” Franks says, mildly. “But then they are rather a younger set. You must think them rather primitive, Mr Carson.”

If it were Thomas, after dropping that last line, he would have immediately left the room and not dealt with the fallout. But Franks just stays there, seeming for all the world like one of those doe-eyed ingenues from the pictures. Butter wouldn’t melt doesn’t cover it. What a first impression. If there were any semblance of the typical butler-valet relationship left, Thomas would tell him to watch it. But there isn’t, and Franks wouldn’t do what he was asked even if offered incentive.

So. Carson.

“I – no. Of course not, Mr Pelham.”

“I imagine it will be quite confusing to have two Mr Pelhams running around downstairs,” Franks continues, like the sadist he is. “But as you like it, Mr Carson.” And with that the nervous hallboy appears, and asks if he can show them to their rooms.

Daisy looks between the three of them with something like glee on her face, before a clanging from the kitchen draws her back inside.

Thomas goes to set up in the rooms he is to share with Mr Franks – he is absolutely certain the men’s corridor has the space for a room each, but perhaps the royal party are the ones getting that luxury. Tonight, he imagines, he’ll be serving dinner to the family and their extended guests, and tomorrow, after Lear’s proverbial baggage train arrives… well. He knows what’s coming, and he also knows just how little use it will be to protest. And protest Carson will; an unstoppable force against a highly moveable object. Thomas just hopes his satisfaction will not be too evident. It doesn’t do to get too ahead of himself - after all, he’ll probably end up doing the dishes regardless of whatever else happens. Maybe he should steal some of the silver, for old time’s sake.

Franks turns around in the cramped little room, lays his bag down on the bed, and sighs dramatically. Thomas stands to attention.

“Mr Pelham, there is simply no need for this kind of attitude,” he says, severely. “We are here to work, and while we are working, we must try to be professional.”

Franks looks up at him, mouth turned down.

And then the catch of understanding in his eyes, and he starts to laugh, and then they are both laughing at whatever they just got away with; it feels like blasphemy, heresy, something along those lines. Thomas sinks down onto the bed.

“My _dear_ Mr Pelham _,_ ” Franks says, when they can breathe again. “How long was it, here? Twenty years?”

“Not nearly so long,” Thomas says, though he’s not entirely sure. “Come on, they’ll be wondering what’s keeping us.”

“That Mr Carson will be _sore_ tomorrow,” Franks says, as he checks his tie in the mirror, and Thomas holds open the door. “Though I did hear Buckingham were sending up the second valet… Hughie used to know him, I think, before the war.”

“Really,” Thomas says. Hughie’s less than reliable, though try telling Franks that. They head down the stairs towards the hall, where the hustle of the Upstairs lunch has passed. The pleasant hum of conversation that Thomas is used to doesn’t permeate the walls here; the sunlight filters through sluggishly and the dust hangs heavy and glistening in the air. Was it really like this, back then, or have things changed so much? Thomas remembers how badly he’d wanted anyone to be honest with, back then, even just one person to be alive next to…

Franks is still talking.

“Unless it’s a different man… I’ve never met him, myself, or at least I don’t think I have…”

Thomas rounds the corner and sees who he was hoping to see. Phyllis is mending a skirt by hand, focussing entirely on the task at hand. Beside her, Anna is bouncing Johnny on her knee and trying to write something down in a thick notebook.

Johnny’s gotten so big, Thomas thinks with pained delight. Aside from that, it’s like he was hit over the head and woke up two years ago. He could be coming around the corner with a list of tasks as long as his arm, and messages from upstairs.

“I’ll take him off your hands, if you like, Mrs Bates,” Thomas says, and the two women look at each other, first, and then up at him.

“Thomas!” Phyllis says, as Anna exclaims “Mr Barrow!” and both women try, awkwardly, to stand.

“This is Mr Franks, Mr Pelham’s valet,” Thomas says, gesturing vaguely behind him.

Phyllis’ smile is bright enough to split rocks, but even so, it’s not enough to prevent the moment of pure silence that settles. Thomas knows that Anna knew him for what he was, when he lived here, and that was a person who was much more willing to hurt than the person he is now. He might have put her into an awkward situation here. She might not want him to hold her son.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Mr Barrow, I’m sure Johnny would love to have a chat,” Anna says, and she deposits the child onto his lap as he sits down at the table, “I’ve actually got to go and see Mrs Hughes about something – you’re sure you don’t mind? We must catch up properly later, Mr Barrow, I’ll be back in five minutes.”

Phyllis, opposite him, puts away her needles. Franks sits down beside him. Johnny grabs a hold of a set of keys left on the table and starts to jangle them about. He’s warm, and focussed on his task.

“It’s so good to see you, Thomas,” Phyllis says warmly, and Thomas believes her, and smiles back.

“It’s good to see you too, Phyl,” he says. “Franks, this is Miss Baxter -”

“The one who sends you the letters!” Franks says. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Phyllis smiles again, and goes to open her mouth to ask something, but her face falls, and Thomas feels a cold shadow on the back of his neck. That hulking presence, so long a feature of his life…

“Thomas – Mr Barrow, rather,” Carson says, and Thomas knows he’s done it on purpose. “If you have no work to be doing, you can help Gregory with the silver.”

It would be so, so easy to get into a battle of wills here, to insist that polishing silver is absolutely below him. The very act of asking is an insult. Franks looks taken aback, Phyllis like she’s primed for a blow.

“Right you are, Mr Carson,” Thomas says. Mr Carson, thwarted, harrumphs.

It’s not precisely a victory. But if age has taught him anything, it’s the importance of playing the long game. Thomas hasn’t won. Yet. But he will.

He leaves Johnny with Phyllis. She promises a cup of tea, later (when, he wonders). Franks is talking, again, and he wonders what on Earth they’re going to say to each other. Thomas goes to polish some silver with a nineteen-year-old.

-

It’s later on. Thomas has taken advantage of his limited duties here and gone to smoke alone while Franks finishes up. The blue night is still summery, always holding the possibility of morning within it. He can’t wait to leave here, already dreading the coming fuss. Phyllis had looked rather taken aback when they explained just what royal procedure was.

“Well, at least Joseph didn’t miss much,” she’d said, but Thomas didn’t really care about Mr Moseley’s feelings on the monarchy. He’d managed to escape working in the vicinity of the King before, but you heard things on the grapevine, and he saw no point in working so hard for someone who essentially did very little… at least Edith had a magazine to run. It wasn’t exactly being a scullery maid, but it was something.

As if he’s summoned her with his cigarette and treasonable thoughts, Daisy comes out the back entrance, wearing only her light Summer jacket.

“Oh!” She says, jerking backwards. “You did scare me, Thomas. I’ve forgotten how you liked to lurk in dark corners.”

He laughs, despite himself, glad that she didn’t quail after making the joke.

“More forthright that ever, Mrs Mason.” He says. She sighs.

“Miss Baxter told you then,” she says. He nods.

Andy Parker, run off about three months after his proposal. Typical of that type, Thomas wants to commiserate. They’ll be as romantic as you like but as soon as they realise the pigs need mucking out and the fire needs stoking, they’ll be on their way and good luck to you. Thomas is an expert in the ways men can hurt the ones they love. Charlie swears that each time it’ll be different, and it never, never is. (That said, sometimes it seems like Franks’ whole face changes when he talks about Hughie, some kind of warmth there that Thomas can’t access or understand, another language he wishes he could speak).

But Daisy doesn’t seem that down in the mouth about it. Her hair suits her, and her clothes are smart and well-kept. The fact that she’s clearly seeing more sun these days is obvious; she has a tan on the back of her hands and freckles all across her nose.

“Seems like you’re doing alright,” he says. “Nice of you to help out.”

“Beryl – Mrs Patmore’s getting on, you know. I do what I can.” Daisy says. She pulls her jacket closer round her shoulders. “I’ll be off, then. Long walk home.”

“Don’t suppose you’d be wanting some company?” Thomas asks, surprising himself. Daisy smiles fondly at him, eyes wrinkling at the corners. She always seemed so young; it’s odd to see the fine lines on her face.

“I like to keep my walks solitary,” she says. “Clear mind. But I’ll chat out here, if you’d like.”

She sits down next to him on the bench and declines a cigarette. They get the small talk about Brancaster out of the way; talk about how life has gone on upstairs. The conversation turns to Mr Mathew and the change he brought to all of their lives, a feat that maybe nobody else in the world could have achieved.

“William always used to be so nice about him,” Daisy says. “In his letters. A proper gentleman.”

The well of guilt that periodically sloshes around inside Thomas makes itself known again.

“I wasn’t nice to William.”

“You were horrible to William.” Daisy says. They sit in silence. “But then I wasn’t nice to him either, when it came down to it.”

“The wedding?” Thomas says. Daisy nods. “You did the best you could.”

“I didn’t love him. Is letting someone go out on a lie a kindness?”

That whole affair still leaves an uncomfortable aftertaste in Thomas’ mouth. You can dress it up any way you want, he thinks, shifting on the bench. You can look at the positive consequences all you like. He doesn’t know how to answer the question. The truth has hurt him enough in his life.

“Did you love Andy?” He asks in an effort to change the topic, realising afterwards that he’s maybe changed it to the only thing worse. She laughs, though.

“You’ve changed and then you’ve not,” Daisy says. “What sort of a question is that?”

“One a friend might ask another,” Thomas says, ignoring the ashtray beside his foot and flicking his cigarette butt onto the ground. There’s laughter from inside the kitchen, and then a curious sudden hush.

“We’re friends now, are we?”

“Suppose we always were, in a way.”

“I’ve a different memory to you, maybe.” She says. “But we got on, when you weren’t being horrible.”

“Fair enough.” Thomas says, debating whether to smoke another. He thinks he won’t; he might not be able to get any more for a while, and he doesn’t really need one.

“I thought I did.” Daisy says, and it takes Thomas a second to realise what she’s talking about. “I thought I did. But then Sarah came back, and she was so lovely that I knew then that I hadn’t.”

Thomas feels his eyebrows shoot up, and a smile beginning to form on his face. He exhales loudly. Daisy notices and slaps a hand over her eyes, brings her head down to her knees, groans.

“I’m so _stupid,_ ” She says.

“I’m not likely to tell, am I?” Thomas replies. He doesn’t risk putting a hand on her shoulder, though he’d like to, so instead he clasps his hands together. “The teacher, was it?”

That’s the change he’s noticed in her, then.

“She’s lodging with me up at the farm,” Daisy nods, bringing her head back up.

“That’s what your lot are calling it these days,” Thomas says, and gets a shove.

“She teaches with Mr Mosely up at the school. They get into all sorts of fights, you know. I’d say he were sweet on her only Miss Baxter and he have some sort of understanding.”

Thomas looks at her.

“I’m happy for you, Daisy,” he says, and he is, though suddenly he’s consumed by the burning loneliness he’s managed to keep at bay up to this point.

Because you can have all the friends in the world – and now he has two very dear friends and five or six others he’s always happy to see and talk to – but there’s something missing from his life, still, and it claws at him. It doesn’t have to be _romantic,_ even, though that would be - nice, but someone to wait for him to come home, or someone he could see and feel something unique. He’s been chasing after it forever, and as much he knows there’s no such thing as happy endings (he’s profited from that fact often enough) he sees Daisy now and knows, too, that there has to be something between this unconscious half-contentment and her blazing happiness.

She leaves, and he sees a full-grown woman walking away.

-

And the next day, the first wave of the royal servants arrives.

“Oh _wow,_ ” Franks says, and Thomas doesn’t have it in him to reply.

Oh wow is right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maintaining my trend of inserting lesbians into every ITV period drama i can

**Author's Note:**

> find me [@meryton-etc](https://meryton-etc.tumblr.com) on tumblr


End file.
